<poem>

Sour Pickles

 

The why is because

It has to get done:

there is no one else to do it.

You won’t leave it, won’t liken it to a fruit:

ripened peaches, soiling air with

that sickly sweet scenario.

 

The why is because

Your mouth flaps around like wind on a tent

bright and loud

and brushing and soft

The why is because

there isn’t anything else for you to do--

 

--this is it,

watching peaches

--this is it, cog in the wheel

--This is it, commerce

--this is it, liquid turned to shiny bracelets

‘round the wrist, tinkling like chimes

 

The why is because your pickles

sour, your chicken dries, your eyesight fails, your child decays.

 

The why is because you read too much

(you read too much)

The why goes back to when

everyone else danced, drugged

limbs akin to cornstalks and presenting caterwauling cartwheels

down a hallway

 

the why is because every moment doesn’t matter

more than the next; complications in the simple and

simplicity in the complex like the stupidest stanza you ever saw. Dashed quality

in every sentiment abbreviated, like ampersands and semi-colons:

 

full throttle,

the why is

because it has to get done

and you are there to do it.

 

06.30.2009